Rock N’ Roll’s logical extremes have reached institution status. Debut albums by Napalm Death, Discharge and GISM- the earliest purveyors of grindcore, long considered to be the most brutally, blurrily abrasive conflagration of punk, metal and hardcore- have all reached their twenty year mark. Surrounding that, there’s been every brand of industrial, experimental and noise music, all on the fringes- never fully partaking in, but never completely separate from- pop and rock music and culture. Just hang on to that thought for a moment. 

  

I’d recently acquired a copy of The Enchanters Vs. Sprawlburg Springs, Brian Costello’s novel concerning the brief rise and fall of exurban Florida punk contenders. I got it by drunkenly answering a couple of trivia questions about Upton Sinclair (I knew he ran for office on the Socialist ticket and that one of his heroes was Jesus.) 

 I’d also recently read Grab On To Me Tightly As If I Knew the Way, Bryan Charles’ novel about a disaffected adolescent Midwestern indie rocker and his portensious self conflicts. It’s probably at your local public library, if you care. You should probably visit your library sometime anyway. 

 Finally, I didn’t see the Coughs at the Empty Bottle during the Wire’s Adventures in Modern Music festival, nor have I heard their new album, though it can be downloaded. However, I’d seen them before, and had read a review of the show in the Reader, and in essence this is more of a review of that review than it is of the Coughs. Also, it fits, albeit loosely, into what I’m getting to. 

 Again, I’ll tie this altogether. Just hang on, okay? 

 First, my opinion. 

I’ll start with Bryan Charles’ elaborately monikered novel. The title, actually, is a pretty good indication of its content (actually, yes, you can judge a book by its title, which is something every author should keep in mind.) This is- and hey, the author may cringe, but, oftentimes, so does the reader- emo lit. 

   The book concerns the waning adolescence of its protagonist Vim Sweeney; angsty, precocious (at least he thinks so) product of fragmented parentage, frontman for Dinosaur Jr./ Sonic Youth-esque band the Judy Lumpers, lusty rabble rousing ranter and potential lover of everything with an orifice.     

   Vim’s central problem, it appears, is a crush (though he’d insist it was so much more) on his drummer’s girlfriend. This, allegedly, leads to him quitting his dishwashing job (which, as a job, is a dead end, but since he’s seventeen and college looms ahead, this hardly looks like jumping off of a cliff), drinking too much coffee, causing a scene at the object of his desire’s trailer (with boyfriend present), taking an impromptu road trip to his crusty old stoner uncle’s rocker pad, developing a mild crush on his uncle’s girlfriend, getting beaten up by a muscleheaded goon and coming home to receive the time of day- including a birthday cuddle (the cuddle that apparently shook the world) and a single kiss- from his drummer’s paramour.   

  

   Before wallowing in my assholery over the slim tome (both books being chatted over here can be burned through in a couple of train commutes), I can’t deny there’s a thing or two to recommend it. The characters, and the relationships between them, especially the characters of Ed- Vim’s more a real dad than his real dad stepfather- and Uncle Bro- his older than old school rocker uncle, are well drawn and fully realized. There’s a good deal of dry, knowing satire (especially regarding Judy Lumpers shows, and the backpack toting, Star Wars and seven inch obsessed kids who populate them) and Rock N’ Roll truisms coming from a few different generations. The horniness and sexual neurosis of teenage late bloomers is captured with comically painful accuracy. And, admittedly, the book’s lyricism, which works against it for long stretches (it does tend to indulge in romanticism and gruesomely gooey nostalgia), also makes it a compelling read- when it works. 

 However, the book just feels so annoyingly self important. It’s laid out, and written, like a kinda smart kid’s diary, with long chunks of stream of consciousness prose to wade through. You’d think this was an all around joke. A parody, maybe, of a confused teenager trying to model his life as a beat punk informed Holden Caulfield. And if it was, it’d be great, but I don’t think it is. 

 For one thing, it never lets up. Ever. Also, the illusion of parody and deprecation is pretty much broken by the inclusion of an author’s prologue, where he comes off as pretty self convinced, an interview with the author, where he has a few self deprecating moments but he still seems to regard himself as literary (he’s been published in Open City, after all), and a list of recommended music- the music itself I don’t take issue with, but his take on the albums, even if I agree, still kinda makes me groan. 

The book is instructive of a few things. I too, was a believer in the ragged, noisy poptones that shook up the nineties musical undertow. As a movement, at the time, the effete narcissism of it all escaped me, which may have been the book’s central conceit, except, even given the gift of hindsight, the narration still comes off as effete and narcissistic. My own myopia was due, I think, to the fact that in my twenties I was still impressionable, gullible, and believed I was a freak looking for a niche and a clique among all the other freaks. However, given that, I think it’s illustrative of countercultural and sub-cultural movements in general. Idealistic posturing by somewhat privileged suburban teens, all of whom trying to deny their privilege. Mythologize all you want, sooner or later the man will bust your tunes. Then he sells them back to you busted and you buy them busted because Hell, what else are you gonna do? 

Anyways, I’ll move on… 

The Enchanters Vs. Sprawlburg Springs concerns maintaining your drive to do and to be while the cooler, more experienced faces in the crowd endorse playing the game and adapting to jaded times. 

 Another story about a dishwasher with a double life as a would be rock star, only this one actually has to pay rent. Protagonist Shaquille Callahan’s first practice with, and initiation into, his band the Enchanters consists of playing a house party under the direction of belligerent guitarist Donald, Donald’s bassist brother, the gently dim Mickey and naively calculating frontwoman Renee. 

   The show, allegedly a beautiful shambles, makes the Enchanters the legends of Sprawlburg Springs house party circuit, and a thorn in the side of the conservative community’s law enforcement, due to the chaotic performances, and the resulting small riots, bust ups and vandalism that dog almost every show. 

   Meanwhile, Shaquille’s manager at his place of gainful employ, a seafood restaurant named after a scatological sex act, wants to move him up the corporate ladder and give him more responsibility. This becomes exceedingly daunting as the demands and commitments of being in his band- including a romantic relationship with Renee- lead to him showing up to work hungover and in full band garb. This, of course, prompts the ridicule of his coworkers, who, being in the service sector of a whitewashed community, are an obviously pathetic and sorry lot. 

Hope arrives in the form of a piece written about them by a retired Lester Bangs-esque Rock critic, in which he states their importance and how lucky the all the snotty local indie kids are to live in the same town as them. This leads to their being booked in the uber-hip rock club that had previously shunned them. This show ends in a large riot, resulting in a broken ankle for Renee, the breakup of her relationship with Shaquille and the band, and the individual members’ descent into drug addictions, straight jobs and suburban exile.    

   This book, more a straight tale of the rock could’ve beens that went south, reads a bit like a well written fanzine, maybe one of the more narrative issues of Cometbus if Cometbus had been surrounded by stifling, repressive, whitewashed suburbs instead of liberal crusty anarchists in good sized cities with outspoken gay populations. 

Given that, it’s pretty light reading and some of the satire hits you over the head with a broad, heavy hand. The end offers some gravity, along with a good dose of some Quixotic hope but… if you’re looking for something that’s gonna get under your skin and stick, this might not be it. However, like the music it ties itself to, it’s got infectious energy and enthusiasm and, under all the chaos and noise, you can hear there’s a hook there, or at least a beat you can dance- or bob or weave- to. At the very least it describes the virtues of fucking to Funhouse, and that’s something that can’t be put in print enough. 

Chicago scribe Jessica Hopper champions her own brand of Enchantment with local noise rockers The Coughs. 

   Writes Harper, “On their new album, Secret Passage (Load), they play like they’re trying to tear apart the songs themselves and maybe take down whoever’s listening as well. But the mushroom cloud rising from this destruction has a silver lining — the explosion is more like the Big Bang, and it feels like something huge is happening inside that bubble of blast heat. Coughs’ intensity makes them seem bigger and more important than just a band; they stand for the destruction of contemporary pop with all its rote prescriptions and attendant soul death.” 

 You know, I’d seen the Coughs (though admittedly, not that recently) about a year ago, at a loft show. They were good and the crowd was happy and that was it. And, to be fair, I have yet to hear the record. Truth be told, even if I loved the record and the band, I’d still have a hard time buying that they’re blowing out every cliché in modern music and clearing the way for the next Great Big Revolutionary Thing. 

   In all honesty, the brand of manic noise parlayed by the Coughs has been around for a long, long time. When I saw them, their frenetic energy, frenzied industrial cacophony and organized chaos brought back memories of seeing great, underrated LA band Slug when I was twenty. That’s not a disparagement on the Coughs, and it’s not really that much of a slag on Hopper’s review. Truth is, the Coughs weren’t Slug any more than Slug were Neubauten or the Birthday Party. The Coughs are unique because what they do is what they’ve filtered and what they process. Same with everybody, except maybe cover bands, and maybe even them too when they care enough to get away with it. 

    The point I’m making is that Rock N’ Roll now has museums and a hall of fame. It’s become its own academic wing. Given that, it’s died a million times and everybody, or anybody, who has ever cared has looked for their own personal savior for it. Whether it be the noisiest, the most abrasive, the hookiest, the most primal, the best dressed, the sexiest, the end result is influence leads to repetition and repetition begets cliché. Are the Coughs bigger and more important than a band? If that’s the case then what are they? A gang? An army? A movement in and of themselves? A…fuck, I don’t know, a…you know, a THING? If they’re playing shows and releasing records, probably not really. But if that’s the case, isn’t being a band enough? 

One of the aforementioned truisms hit upon in Bryan Charles’ novel: “In the whole history of music, the whole shit, there’s only twelve notes. Bam. That’s it…..There are only so many ways to tell the same story.” 

So tell it how you will, just keep it in mind that, the details may change, but it’s still the same story. 

Like that one about the family that goes in to see a talent agent…. 

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